


Coping Mechanisms

by thatsmygvn (cougarlips)



Series: Holy [2]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU after 6x14, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M for canon-typical violence in flashbacks???, M/M, POV Third Person, Past Daryl/Beth friendship, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-28 07:41:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7631146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cougarlips/pseuds/thatsmygvn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>No matter how many times he washed his hands, he could never quite rid himself of the feeling of the blood that seemed permanently soaked inside his bones. Amy, Jim, Randall, Sophia, Dale, Merle, Hershel, Beth, and now Denise -- the list seemed to grow ever longer as he survived. The people he bled for and who bled for him crawled into his dreams at night, blaming him for their murders in his nightmares for not owning up, for not doing what needed to be done, for not being there, for not stopping the conflict before it started.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coping Mechanisms

**Author's Note:**

> if you follow me on tumblr ([@thatsmygvn](http://thatsmygvn.tumblr.com)) you might know that i've decided to comb through and edit all of my fics. this was formerly chapter 2 of "Holy", but for how i want them to be read, they work better as standalones, so i made it into a series.
> 
> so the series was originally supposed to be a collection of canon-compliant insertions of where/how daryl and jesus could interact throughout the hell that is _actual_ canon. that said, i wrote this chapter just after 6x14 aired and all we had to go off of was the preview for 6x15 of daryl taking off on his motorcycle. after watching the rest of the season, it's p safe to say this is completely irrelevant to how things actually played out. i still lowkey like it tho so B)
> 
> if you've read chapter 2 of Holy, you don't have to reread this, but it IS edited and slightly altered to make a touch more sense and to make the characters.... more in character???? lmao

Daryl watched Rosita pull Tara aside the moment she and Heath entered the gates. As her grin subsided into a slightly more somber expression, Daryl turned away. He closed his eyes against her cries. His hands gripped the hilt of Beth’s hunting knife as images of Denise’s lifeless body, once again, made their way into his mind, as mirrors of Beth’s small, pale body weaved in and out of his vision.

Pushing away from the steps, Daryl shouldered his crossbow -- ignored the sickening lurch in his stomach, ignored how it felt so _wrong_ in his hands -- and pocketed the knife. As the idle chatter resumed behind him, as the faint cries dwindled in the distance, he made his way towards the only other exit the community had to offer, climbing over the fence and dropping down with a dull thud as leather smacked dirt.

No matter how many times he washed his hands, he could never quite rid himself of the feeling of the blood that seemed permanently soaked inside his bones. Amy, Jim, Randall, Sophia, Dale, Merle, Hershel, Beth, and now Denise -- the list seemed to grow ever longer as he survived. The people he bled for and who bled for him crawled into his dreams at night, blaming him for their murders in his nightmares for not owning up, for not doing what needed to be done, for not being there, for not stopping the conflict before it started.

As the moaning of the dead reached his ears, Daryl stooped low and lost himself in the physical labor, abandoned -- if only temporarily -- the nagging regret, the persistent “if only”’s  in the back of his mind. As he took down walkers and their blood stained his clothes, he felt it only fitting that he look as tainted on the outside as he felt on the inside.

With each passing walker, visions danced between his eyes of Jim, his face white as a sheet and slick with sweat; of Andrea, her skin flushed with the hellish fever; of Sophia, so small as she stumbled out of the barn with dead eyes that bore into his; of Beth, her final deed dealt out with a smile on her stitched face as her brain blew into chunks; of Denise, furiously choosing to live the second his own arrow pierced her brain.

He didn’t notice when he started lagging behind the walkers, but he _did_ notice when a leather-and-wool clad figure showed up to dispatch the remaining dozen.

“What the fuck?” Jesus exclaimed in lieu of a greeting. “Are you _trying_ to get yourself bit?”

Daryl shrugged, using his silence to gather his composure. He began collecting his arrows from the rotten skulls of the dead around him, wiping them carelessly on his jeans. Jesus stared as if waiting for an honest answer.

With a huff, Jesus nodded his head towards the community. “Rick asked me to find you. He says there’s something he has to tell you.”

He nodded and turned his back to the man, already slouching towards the entrance when Jesus grabbed his shoulder. Without thinking, Daryl grabbed his arm and threw him against the steel paneling, his hand pressing a still-bloodied arrow to the base of Jesus’s throat. “Y’wanna try that again?” he snarled.

Jesus set his mouth in a grimace, though his eyes retained a steely nerve. “Keep going on this way and you’re going to do _worse_ than get yourself killed,” he warned venomously. “You feel guilty, but you refuse to talk to anybody. I never would’ve believed you to be such a dumbass, Daryl.”

Daryl narrowed his eyes and pressed the arrowhead harder into the soft flesh underneath Jesus’s bandana. “Look who’s talk--” he began, but Jesus cut him off.

“You don’t know me well enough to tell me about how I do or don't cope with grief, so reverting to that defense mechanism won't work with me,” he put bluntly. “I don’t know anything about you except you will do whatever it takes to keep your people safe. I understand that. I _get_ that. But you can’t claim to know a damn thing about me, if that’s what you’re assuming.”

Scowling heavily, Daryl let him go and opted to ignore the words Jesus called out after him as he walked away, sloughing grey matter off of his weapons. His hands absently reached for Beth’s hunting knife again. He took special care in cleaning the blade, much more than he did with his arrows, even going so far as to tearing a strip off of the hem of his shirt and soaking it in water to wipe it down. With a churning in his stomach, he noticed the flecks of dried blood on its hilt where Beth never could get it entirely clean.

Heaving, he put the knife away, put his arrows back in his quiver, and threw the rag against a nearby tree. If Jesus still walked behind him, it would’ve been a sight to see: Daryl Dixon breaking down in the middle of the forest over a dull hunting knife.

He expected a laugh or a scoff if the other man continued to walk with him -- not a gentle hand on his arm and understanding permeating throughout deep blue eyes. When Jesus lifted his hand again and Daryl flinched, he watched that understanding fade into confusion and sadness before pulling away and taking several deep breaths.

Only a few more minutes and he’d be back at the entrance to talk to Rick. He regained his composure as he turned the corner and flagged Rosita to let him in.

Seeing Tobin’s worried expression mirrored on Rick’s face, Daryl felt his stomach drop. Jesus caught up with them just in time to see Daryl throwing a sheet of paper onto the ground and make a beeline for his motorcycle, kicking it started as Rick, Tobin, and even Glenn called after him.

“He’s going to get himself killed!” Jesus overheard Glenn exclaim, eyes wide.

Jesus watched Daryl roar out of the community before he stopped to read the note that flitted towards the ground.


End file.
